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For convenience’s sake, Dazai is much grateful for the invention of the modern day cellphone. Smartphones, rather.
It certainly beats waiting days for a letter to arrive or scouring for loose change just for a phone call. He certainly did not miss the atrocity of pagers.
Now, everything he needs is at the tip of his fingers. News, maps, food, online shopping - for all its many failings and inconsistencies, humanity at least managed to make life easier over the centuries, if only in small ways.
Small, being the operative word, because for all its joys, Dazai loathes how today’s technology makes him so… reachable.
Case being: multiple missed calls and text messages from one particular Nakajima Atsushi.
The do not disturb button is quite appealing, but Dazai is gently reminded that the last time Atsushi desperately tried to contact him was secondary to a true emergency, so one can only ignore their protégé for so long.
atsushi: have you seen this??
atsushi: [link]
atsushi: ???????
[4 missed calls]
atsushi: !!!!!!
Dazai clicks on the link with little urgency, and it brings him to Kanagawa Shimbun’s official website.
THE LATEST IN ART:
Japan (Yokohama) - Yokohama Museum will open a new exhibition next month featuring letters from 20th century author, Shuji Tsushima. “Passing Storm” is a collection of personal letters recently discovered in the late author’s estate. The recipient[s] of these letters remains elusive, but many experts believe…
Dazai blinks, refreshes the website and reads the chunk of text again, before everything clicks into place.
“Holy shit.”
A second later, he’s leaning forward, skimming every word with a rising sense of dread. In the many lifetimes he’s lived, he’s never had a heart attack but Dazai thinks this is what it must feel like. His fingers twitch against his phone as he scrolls through the museum's webpage, squinting at an image of one of his very own letters - his own handwriting, elegantly displayed behind protective glass. And of course he remembers the things he wrote there, and why they were buried and hidden in the first place.
Years of carefully dodging paper trails, forging family trees, and faking one identity after the other - this is where he slips?
“Unbelievable.”
“Indeed!” Atsushi’s voice startles him - Dazai hadn’t even realized he answered the call. “I didn’t know you could be so… romantic!”
He doesn’t even deem that worthy of a reply, and simply drops the call. He turns off the cellphone for good measure.
Romantic . Dazai wants to hurl himself out the window. He at least thinks he’s being reasonable enough this time. Of all the words to haunt him from his long, immortal past, that’s the one the universe picks for him?
He even let womanizer slide - that one was hilarious (until now, he’s convinced that Kouyou had something to do with it). Insane was the second most popular, but it wasn’t quite impactful.
The unspoken musings of a broken author , they’re saying. Good to know that his indecipherable ramblings are now museum-worthy. Somehow, he misses the simplicity of his previous life as an unremarkable, dying man.
Not that any of those matter right now. He digresses - he has bigger things to worry about.
It was supposed to be easy to stay in the shadows. Keeping his affairs out of public reach was practically an art form at this point - one he’d perfected over the centuries.
He flips through his options. He could burn the museum down (too messy), bribe the curator (too hassle), hack their system (not much gain in there), or… well, ask for help.
And there it is - the one solution that could possibly make this day worse.
Atsushi is in Antarctica doing god knows what.
Akutawaga is also in Antarctica doing god knows who.
Kunikida is somewhere in Milan.
Ranpo has been off radar for two years and counting now.
And he’d rather just donate everything else to the museum before even asking Kouyou for help.
Which is to say, of course, that the list of people he can’t ask for help is much, much longer than those he can .
He lets out a low sigh. Might as well get this over with.
See, the thing about immortals is that no matter how much each one of you hates one another, there is always that mutual understanding of wanting to lie low. Because of this, there’d been a network established to track and forging documents as the need arises. This is Kouyou’s expertise, and Kouyou has passed down her wisdom to her multitude of disciples. Among the best being, of course, none other than Chuuya himself.
Chuuya, who he hasn’t spoken to in years.
Dazai can already feel the migraine kicking in.
“Mackerel,” Chuuya says in lieu of hello, because he has never been the one for manners. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Dazai smiles, despite himself. Three years dissolved just by three rings on a phone. “Irritable as always, I see.”
“You didn’t call just to annoy me, did you?”
“You wound me. I have a situation. A delicate one that requires your particular skill set.”
“What skill set is that, exactly?” Chuuya was silent for a moment. “The fuck you mean, delicate matter? You got yourself tangled up in some illegal gambling ring again or what?”
Dazai snorts. “That was one time.”
“Twice. It happened twice.”
“The second one was technically your fault though.”
Chuuya laughs at the other end, perhaps even fond, if Dazai wants to delude himself.
“Touché. Alright, so what is this really about?”
He could hear Chuuya shuffling at the other end of the phone, and the harsh blow of wind. He’s not sure if he’s imagining it, but he could almost hear the sea. It somehow reminds him of the first time they met, back in Italy. Chuuya had been the fourth son of a fisherman and lived his days between the sky and the sea. Dazai was but a son of a merchant, poring over ledgers and scrunching numbers at the back of his skull. A near drowning incident brought them together, and it was thanks to Chuuya that Dazai learned how to swim in open water.
They’d been friends since then - inseparable soon after.
They watched empires rise and fall across Europe, and together they blazed through Asia with boyish fervor. Together, they eventually discovered immortality.
Dazai cannot pinpoint the exact moment when it happened for him, but he knows he stopped visibly aging beyond the days when they were in Japan.
If he could narrow it down, it must have been some time between ages eighteen to twenty - Dazai has half convinced himself that it was the night they spent in Tokyo, before it even had that name. He thinks it was that night his bones came to a grinding halt, his skin pause, because that simple day was the most important day that would happen to him. Just another evening, when nothing amazing occurred, except that he felt completely at home in Chuuya’s presence.
“Must be important if you’re calling me, eh?”
Dazai tries not to picture him smirking. Tries not to remember why he wrote those letters in the first place.
“Disastrous,” he says about the past and present. “Names, birthdays. Details that could potentially compromise me.”
“As bad as Ranpo’s, then?” Dazai hears him tapping on his screen, and then whistles. “Shuji Tsushima, huh? That’s a name I haven’t heard in literal centuries.”
“Please shut up.”
Chuuya, in fact, is incapable of doing such. Dazai could practically hear his grin through the phone. “Ha! Shuji Tsuhishima’s heart finally laid raw in pen and paper. What, they found your diary or something?”
Worse, Dazai thinks but counters immediately: “Look, if Higuchi were available, I wouldn't have bothered calling you.”
Chuuya clicks his tongue. “Hah? You know there isn’t anyone more skilled than I am for this kind of job.”
Dazai suppresses a laugh. “Right. Sure.”
“You’re fucking welcome, asshole. This better be worth my time.”
And the line goes dead.
[1]
I recall when we first met Ozaki Kouyou - I bid her a hag, which might explain why she detests me so. It was spring last year when we first visited her apothecary. She theorized that immortality is brought upon by immense joy.
If that is the case then, do you remember when we bought figs and went fishing until night time came? I may never know if it was truly joy that I felt at that moment, only that I knew I wish to sit beside you for as long as you will have me.
I think, and a part of me dares to hope, that you’ve stopped aging too. Does this mean you are destined to stay in my life, as I am in yours?
There are twelve letters slated for display - how Chuuya managed to figure that out without the details being posted online is a mystery Dazai doesn’t have the energy to solve. What he does know is that he wrote thirteen. He’s spent the past week tearing through every inch of his properties, leaving chaos in his wake as he searched for the missing one.
In the end, the last letter remains unfound. Whether that’s a stroke of luck or the universe mocking him, Dazai still can’t decide.
Besides, he doesn’t have time to mull things over anymore.
The faint echo of boots on the pavement pulls Dazai’s attention to the museum’s entrance. Even before Chuuya steps into view, Dazai knows it’s him. There’s something unmistakable about Chuuya’s presence - sharp, commanding, like a blade drawn from its sheath.
Dazai leans lazily against a lamppost, the faint glow casting shadows over his face. He tucks his hands into his pockets, feigning nonchalance, but his mind is anything but still.
Three years, he thinks.
That’s how long it had been since he’d last seen Chuuya. Not that he was counting, of course. But in all that time, not a single thing had changed - not the way Chuuya walked with purpose, not the weight of his presence that seemed to fill the air, and certainly not the way Dazai’s chest tightened at the sight of him.
It was ironic, Dazai thought, how he could always rely on someone who despised him just as much as he cared for him.
For a moment, he thinks of what had happened between them in Moscow, and the apology almost spills from his lips - but Chuuya crosses his arms as he regards Dazai with that familiar look — equal parts exasperation and begrudging tolerance.
“This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever come up with.”
Dazai’s smile widens, easy and practiced. “Here I thought you’d chicken out.”
Chuuya snorts, shaking his head. “You’re still as insufferable as ever.”
But as their eyes meet, Dazai catches a flicker of something unspoken - something that feels a lot like relief. He wonders if Chuuya had been replaying the last three years in his head, too.
“You missed me,” Dazai says with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He couldn't help it - it was always easier to hide behind a mask, even if it rarely fools Chuuya. “It’s okay. I missed you too.”
“Shut up, idiot.” Chuuya glares at him but there’s no real bite to it. “Alright, let’s get this over with. Can’t believe I’m sacrificing my night for this. I have better things to do, you know.”
Dazai grins. He seriously doubts that. “Consider this a magnanimous gift. I know you’ve always wanted to break into the MET.”
Chuuya makes quick work of securing the perimeter and unlocking the doors. The security is astoundingly lackluster, but he presumes that’s already thanks to whatever strings Chuuya had to pull prior to this endeavor.
“Yes, but this isn’t the MET is it?”
“Oh, come now,” Dazai says with a mock pout. “It’ll be fun.”
Chuuya straightens, crossing his arms. “If we get caught, I’m shoving you into the security guards and walking out.”
Dazai beams, entirely unfazed. “That’s the spirit.”
[3]
Has anyone shown you the same loyalty you so easily pour out? If not, then let me.
They moved through the shadows, the faint glow of their flashlights dancing across the exhibits.
“It should be this way,” Chuuya says, adjusting his gloves with casual disinterest. His voice was low, almost amused, as if the entire thing was just another of their usual stroll. He didn’t even glance at the security camera tracking their every movement.
Sometimes Dazai forgets that he headed a criminal organization, once upon a time.
“Cocky as always.”
They rounded a corner, and the distant sound of a guard’s radio suddenly crackles through the air. Chuuya pauses and then tugs Dazai further in the shadows. He presses himself against the wall, movement precise and calculated.
Dazai rolled his eyes but kept quiet until the guard’s past them. His posture relaxes, and then he throws a wink at Chuuya’s direction. “You need to learn how to enjoy these things. You’re setting a terrible vibe. You make it look like this is the hardest thing we’ve ever done.”
Chuuya elbows him. “Hardest? We’ve literally dodged death so many times I’m starting to think it’s got a personal vendetta against us. Let’s not forget that time we were literally buried alive, or -”
“- the situation in Kamakura,” they say in unison. It’s a fond memory, as much as it was traumatizing. Chuuya had to learn how to speak in Russian in less than a week to strike negotiations with a foreign mobster; Dazai didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was more than familiar with the language already.
“This is practically child’s play, you know.”
Dazai grins and keeps an eye out while Chuuya toys with another set of locks. “As I said, cocky .”
The door opens with a soft click, and they slip in. The room is dimly lit, bathed in the warm glow of a single overhead light.
One, two, three, four - twelve in total, and Dazai is trying his absolute best not to smash the cases and make quick work of it already.
As with all things difficult in life, everything centers back to Chuuya. When he turns, Chuuya is already grinning devilishly, and Dazai wants to shoot himself in the head. “Does Yosano know about this because wow , Dazai - nay , Tsushima-san - who knew you had it in you!”
“‘Nay’?!” is all that he can say, because of course , despite earlier promises that Chuuya will absolutely not read any of its contents (screw his “I swear on my honor” and “How could you even doubt me, mackerel” over the phone), Chuuya - much like himself - is in fact, quite a piece of shit, has swiped one letter from its glass.
“...'Your hair glimmers like the sun on fine wine’? Hah! Did you steal this from some romance novel?”
“I was young!”
“What century was this written?” He scans for the date. “This is the most entertaining thing that's happened to me. Your eyes contain a raging storm today, and -”
[5]
I’m sorry our trip to Sicily isn’t a more joyous occasion.
Your father truly was the kindest man I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. You inherited all his positive qualities, most especially his strength.
You carry the weight of the world with such grace, it almost makes me forget my own. How do you do it? Have I let you know that you can share half of it with me?
“What the fuck.”
Dazai looks away. For a brief moment, his hands falter on the pile of letters, but he quickly masks it with a light laugh.
Chuuya repeats it, and the words echo in the room. “What the actual fuck, Dazai.”
“Will you please keep your voice down, you oversized toddler.” He makes a move to gather the rest before Chuuya is able to. “Do you want to get caught?”
Another glass case clicks. Chuuya’s voice drops slightly as he reads, the words feeling heavier than he expected. “Maybe I should have taken your offer to see the world together, so I would not be thinking of you so often.”
[9]
I heard you’re going by the name ‘Kashimura’ these days.
By the way, what’s your telephone number?
“I think I’m having an aneurysm.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Have you read these?!”
Dazai snorts. “I hid them for a reason, you know that right?”
[8]
Oda is dead.
Mori is dead.
I am leaving. I’m sorry. I didn’t deserve the way you stood by me.
Dazai knows that if he weren’t a patron of the arts, Chuuya would have easily torn the letters. Unfortunately for all parties involved, he respects the sanctity of the museum. That is to say that he, of course, settles with verbal assault.
“This is the dumbest, stupidest, most fucked up joke you could have set up in the history of - of forever!”
It’s a little flattering how Dazai’s carelessness is chalked up to his usual mind game - props to Chuuya for seeing the best and worst in him in every situation. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And in any case, see? You blush so beautifully when you’re angry. It’s exactly as I described in the tenth one.”
Silence falls between them, broken only by the rustle of papers in Dazai’s hands. He shufles them with more purpose, a futile attempt to busy himself as the weight of Chuuya’s gaze presses down on him.
Chuuya steps closer, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the silence. “All of this?” He gestures at the room, the scattered lettes, the open display cases. “You wrote for me?”
Dazai’s lips twitch, his usual smirk threatening to break through but failing. “Who else would I write something that pathetic about?” His voice is light, almost playful, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He can’t - won’t - meet Chuuya’s gaze, his head dipping as if the act of looking might split him open.
Chuuya narrows the gap between them, frustration edging his words. “You’re dodging the question again.”
“Three years,” Chuuya now says with near vehemence. “Three years ago, in Moscow. Before you left. Before you decided to walk away. I asked you. I asked you, didn’t I?”
[11]
I wish I was as brave as you.
“You wrote all this, but you couldn’t just say it? What’s your excuse this time?”
Dazai lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You wouldn’t have believed me. You barely believe me now.” He finally raises his head but his gaze drifts somewhere just past Chuuya’s shoulder, as if looking directly at him would be too much.
“That’s not an answer.” Chuuya’s voice softens, though there’s still a roughness to it, like he’s afraid of what he might hear.
Dazai hesitates. His fingers tighten around the stack of papers, the rustling stopping as his shoulders tense. “I’m not going to say it,” he murmurs, his voice so low it almost gets swallowed by the stillness. “I won’t tell you I love you.”
Chuuya freezes, his breath catching. For once, the words he’s been bracing for don’t sting - they hollow something out of him instead, leaving behind an ache he wasn’t prepared for.
“Why not?” he asks, his tone cautious now, almost quiet.
Dazai’s hands fall to his sides, the letters slipping from his grasp to scatter on the floor. “Because if I do,” he says, his voice cracking just slightly, “it becomes real. And things that are real…” He swallows hard, his eyes finally meeting Chuuya’s. “They’re just things I can lose.”
The room seems to hold its breath, the confession unravelling between them like a fragile thread. Dazai looks away again, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “You’re the one thing - maybe the only thing - that has been constant in my life. And I can’t lose you, Chuuya. Not you. Not this.”
[12]
You’ve been in my life for so long that I don’t know how to do this without you. And maybe, I don’t want to.
Chuuya stays quiet for a long moment, letting Dazai’s words hang in the air between them. He doesn’t look angry - doesn’t even look like he’s about to snap back with his usual sharp retort. Instead, his eyes soften, and he exhales like he’s been holding something back for far too long.
“You’re such an idiot,” he mutters, softer than Dazai expects. He steps closer, closing the small space between them, and places a hand on Dazai’s arm - not rough, not dismissive, but steady. “You always think you’re protecting yourself by pretending you don’t feel anything. But you don’t get to push me away, not after all this. Not again.”
The weight of the years, the centuries, seems to hang between them - two people who’ve lived so many lifetimes together, yet have never quite figured out how to be together.
“Eternity is such a long time.” Dazai chuckles dryly, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Chuuya shrugs, steadfast as ever. “Eternity doesn’t sound so awful if I get to do it with you.”
The words are frozen between them, vulnerable, unspoken promises slipping into a silence that’s loud with everything Dazai doesn’t want to admit. His heart beats louder than it has in ages.
For once, Dazai doesn’t think - doesn’t second-guess. He leans in, and Chuuya meets him halfway, the kiss soft but heavy with everything they’ve left unsaid for far too long.
CODA
THE LATEST IN ART:
Japan (Yokohama) - The Yokohama Museum has confirmed that a collection of rare personal letters from 20th-century author Shuji Tsushima has been stolen just weeks before their scheduled public exhibition. The letters, part of an exhibition titled “Passing Storm,” were recently discovered in the late author’s estate and were to be showcased next month.
Authorities are investigating the theft, with initial reports suggesting the letters were taken sometime overnight.